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While thus the imprisoned leaves and waking flowersBurst from their tombs, the birds that lurked unseen Amid the hibernal shade, in busy tribesPour their forgotten multitudes, and catchNew life, new rapture, from the smile of spring.The oak’s dark canopy, the moss-grown thorns,Flutter with hurried pinions, and resoundWith notes that suit a forest; some, perchance,Rude singly, yet with sweeter notes combinedIn unison harmonious; notes that seek,